


The Science of Submission

by Roadstergal



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depression, Dom/sub, Gen, Jealousy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-19
Updated: 2012-10-19
Packaged: 2017-11-16 15:14:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/540835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roadstergal/pseuds/Roadstergal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's quite irritating to John that Sherlock isn't the only one to come back from the dead.  Post-RF.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my beta Kahvi, and to Smaychel for the idea and for fun conversations about dom-ing.

"I'm _fine_ , now leave me alone," Sherlock snapped as soon as the door opened, not looking away from the bloodied arm of a jacket he was holding up to the light.

 "Right," John sighed, swinging the door shut, feeling a bit silly, as he inevitably did.  This was Sherlock's reaction every time he checked on the man in a slight panic in the middle of the night, John pondered as he mounted the stairs back to his bedroom, but how could he not? The pure intellectual knowledge that the man was _not_ dead was little consolation when John awoke in the small hours of the morning, panicking at the voice in the back of his mind that wanted him to know he had dreamed it all, that Sherlock was still dead and buried.

No, he reminded himself as he clambered back into bed. Sherlock was alive. He had casually sauntered into the crime scene, pointing out all of the things that Lestrade was missing about the three bodies tied together and dangling from the center of the Eye. That had been mostly Sherlock's doing, but after what the men in question had been up to, particularly 'Colonel' Moran, public opinion turned as quickly in Sherlock's favor as it had turned away, before.

And now, it was all how it had been before. John in 221B, Sherlock in his own room, bizarre crimes, the press fawning over Sherlock's prowess and speculating on John's 'bachelorhood.' It wasn't _right_ for everything to be so much the same. Something had to be different, fundamentally different, after all of this. And maybe this was why John woke up sweating from nightmares of demon dogs pulling Sherlock to his death, jumping out of bed with the dread certainty in his viscera that Sherlock was dead, and it had been some fevered dream that Sherlock had just _made it all up_.

"Good morning, dear," Mrs. Hudson sang as John stumbled down the stairs rather later that morning, and John quickly grabbed his discarded robe from the base of the stairs and donned it. "I thought I'd clean up a little bit, make you some breakfast, you haven't had time to go shopping all week, have you?"

"No - thank you." John sat at the table, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. He wasn't quite ready for human interaction yet.

"Well, Sherlock left earlier this morning," Mrs. Hudson sighed as she swept a handful of bullet casings off of the windowsill into the bin, putting the house plant back in its place. "He said he'd be out until three, but Miss Adler will be by about noon to pick up a few things."

John prodded the small pile of scrambled eggs, his appetite as shot as the window in the building opposite had been two days ago. "Right." If Sherlock's death hadn't been permanent, it would be too much to hope _hers_ would be, as well. Particularly as she had resumed her habit of frolicking into and out of the flat at all hours, as if she owned it. The short ginger haircut couldn't be fooling anyone, particularly not Mycroft, but she had not been 'disappeared' or shot in the weeks she had been around.

"Oh, don't look like that. We're not living in the nineteenth century anymore, it's simply employment like any other." Mrs. Hudson had certainly come around to the woman - perhaps because Sherlock had changed the text alert on his mobile.

Her employment was hardly the issue, John fumed; it was her shamelessness when it came to Sherlock, like she owned the man. She didn’t. She _didn't_. It didn't help that the troublesome voice at the back of John's head was asking just how certain he was of that?

"Bring the plates by when you're done. And actually eat what's on them, you look like a stick." Mrs. Hudson trotted back downstairs as if she hadn't a care in the world.


	2. Chapter 2

"Sherlock's not in?" Irene Adler flew frigidly into the sitting room like an immaculately dressed low-pressure front.

"No." John read the same line in the newspaper article four times, firmly, as she strode into Sherlock's bedroom, emerging a short time later with a black leather rucksack over her shoulder.

"Pity," she sighed. She paused, looked at John with that irritating half-smile on her face, and strode out again.

John motivated himself to actually pick up groceries later that afternoon, and was putting them away when Sherlock returned. He stopped on the way to the bedroom, looking at the window.  "Where are the bullet casings?"

"Mrs. Hudson threw them away."

Sherlock turned to John, frowning. "Why?"

"I don't know."

"Oh, for god's sake, John, if you can't tell me the motivations of the benighted people around us, what use are you?" Sherlock stormed back to his room, slamming the door with unnecessary violence. The door opened again a moment later. "Is that full-fat?"

"Semi-skim."

Sherlock muttered something darkly to himself as he slammed the door again.

Really, John pondered as he put the milk away, if that didn't convince his hindbrain that Sherlock was truly alive, what would?

But later that night, it was _red eyes_ and _Moriarty's smirk_ and _blood wet and sticky on his hands_ and Mycroft's impassive face _No, John, he’s been_ _cremated_ , and John found himself pounding down the stairs, his heart racing.

Sherlock did not chastise him, this time, but the ball gag in his mouth was probably more to blame for that than any internal restraint on Sherlock's part. Irene glanced over, a riding crop raised in her hand in mid-stroke, clearly aimed at Sherlock's exposed and reddened backside. John slammed the door. "Sorry," he said, meaning the word with all the savage sincerity he had. "I... hell." This... this shouldn't be a surprise. Shouldn't be. There was a dominatrix practically living in their house, coming and going at all hours of the day and night; was it any surprise that she was plying her trade? Plying it on _Sherlock_. Bile rose in John's gullet as he stumped his way up the stairs, flopping on his bed and staring at the ceiling. Her hands on Sherlock, binding him, pulling down his trousers, beating him. It wasn't right. It wasn't _right_.

Sherlock was not up and about when John came down the stairs that morning. That was all right, John could hardly face him right out of bed like that. A shower and shave, a clean change of clothes, a kettle of water for tea on the hob, and John felt much more able to face the day, and Sherlock.

Two hours, after four cups of tea and everything John could find vaguely interesting in the morning paper, and his resolve was slipping. He held onto it gamely, grasping more firmly when the bedroom door opened and Sherlock emerged, alone and fully dressed in a far-too-tight blue silk shirt and dark trousers. He waved a hand at the paper John was holding.  "The girl tried to seduce her neighbor; he was gay but gave it a go to make her happy, and she threw the baby in the bin when it was born. She's lying about all of that, no surprise, but her idiot boyfriend thinks she'll love him if he covers for her."

John put the paper away. "Sleep well?"

"If by 'sleep well' you mean 'did I enjoy the professional attentions of our resident dominatrix,' yes. I didn't sleep."

Well, so much for easing into things. John stood, hands on hips. "Yes, I was going to talk to you about that."

"I'd really rather you didn't, as you're clearly not pleased, and any objections you have would not be based on any real threat to my health, and would therefore be irrational. I hate it when you're irrational. Which is most of the time." Sherlock sniffed the tea in the pot, frowned, and dumped it in the sink.

"She acts like she owns you."

"Are you disappointed that you don't?" Sherlock shuffled through the cabinet, pulling out the chamomile.

"You didn't answer my question." John couldn't keep his heart beating at anything near a normal rate. _That woman_.

"You didn't ask one." Sherlock dumped tea into the pot and poured hot water atop, his long fingers nimble.

"Why are you letting her do that?"

"Because I find it fascinating."

"There are plenty of people who would... do fascinating things for you who aren't _her_!"

"Jealousy, John? It doesn't become you."

"I don't care what _becomes_ me!" John took a deep breath. "She's not good for you. She'd sell you out for ten pounds."

"Oh, come _on_ , John. She'd hold out for more than that."

"This isn't a joke."

"No, it isn't." Sherlock turned to face John. "I trust the other 'plenty of people' you refer to even less than her. I don't trust many people."

"You trust _me_." Even as the words left John's lips, he realized they weren't true. Months of believing Sherlock dead. If Sherlock trusted John, he would have let the man _know_ , not suffer and pine and spend too much time with his damn therapist trying to get over the loss of a man who was in London the whole time.

"And would you indulge my curiosity for _fascinating_ things?" Sherlock checked his wristwatch. "Lestrade wants to wind up the Lehrer case. Work on your shooting, we're going to the west country next week and I can't have you all out of practice and unable to hit the side of a barn."


	3. Chapter 3

The quiet flat, after Sherlock’s departure, was a good place to sit and think, and come to a solid decision.  After that, it was just a matter of putting the plan into action.  John was not a man to dwell on his decisions and second-guess them, and the solution to this conundrum, from the conversation this morning, was abundantly clear. He went to the gym for the first time in weeks, ran some more errands, checked in with Sarah and promised to return to work next month.  On his way home that evening, he bought six bottles of bitter and consumed half of them as he waited. He was no great believer in liquid courage, but he had to admit, he could use all the help he could get.

Sherlock paused on his way across the sitting room. "You've been drinking."

"Yes." Bit obvious, that one, it hardly needed Sherlock's deductive powers to point that one out. "So tell me why."

Sherlock sighed. "Given our conversation this morning, and your inexplicable possessiveness where Irene Adler is concerned, you're going to try to be my own little dominatrix so that she doesn't come back here anymore, and you've had alcohol to brace yourself for the experience. You'll deeply regret it, as you won't be able to dissociate it from sex in your mind, and you're straight; you’ll be unable to do it more than once, so you'll find that she will continue to come back here, leaving you in the same position as you are now, plus a bit of self-loathing. Go to bed." Sherlock strode across the sitting room, opening the door to his bedroom. John followed. Sherlock paused in the doorway. "Go away."

"No."  John stepped closer.

Sherlock's lip twisted. "Blocking my doorway like a lump of flesh and saying 'no.' You're off to a smashing career as a dominatrix. I'd say don't quit your day job, but you haven't been there in ages, so don't quit your day dole...?"

It wasn't exactly easy to pick Sherlock up - skinny as he was, he still weighed a good amount - but doing so stopped him talking, which would do for now. John tossed him on the bed.

There. Sherlock on the bed; that was step one.  Step two required equipment.  The leather rucksack was clearly visible on the ground next to the bed, so John picked it up and rummaged through it. Enough of the objects had a clear enough use to get him going. He could make do. The gag and the handcuffs, certainly, were clear.

"Good Christ, John, get out of m...urgh!" The gag slipped on easily, pleasingly, and Sherlock's struggles seemed a bit token as John clasped the handcuff on Sherlock's left wrist, properly snugly. Well, that was part of the point, wasn't it? Pretending to struggle. Complicity. Play-acting, really. John fastened the other end of the handcuff around the newel post at the corner of the bed, tightly enough that it couldn't slide off the top. Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

"Take your trousers down," John said in his best doctor voice, looking through the rucksack. That definitely helped; it was a comfortable role to slip into, a disinterested one, a slightly paternal and reassuring one. Riding crop, the one she had been using on Sherlock. Paddle. Short cat 'o nine tails. All highly conditioned black leather - did this woman have no imagination?

Sherlock made an indignant little noise. John pulled out the paddle. "Take them down, I said." Sherlock blinked, then did so, unfastening them, pushing them to his knees a little awkwardly with his constrained left hand, settling on the bed in a semi-squat. His underpants were as silky as his shirt, dark purple and snug. "Those, too - and face that way." Would it be easier with Sherlock not facing him?

John took a deep breath, stepping close as Sherlock's rear was exposed. Just a rear - a smooth, pale, hairless, clean backside. He had seen less appealing ones on girls, certainly. This would be fine. He drew his hand back and swatted, and almost yelped at the sharp _crack_ as paddle met behind. He pulled back quickly as Sherlock made a startled noise. Still, the mark on the buttock was pale red, hardly in proportion to that noise... oh. Looking more closely, John saw the paddle had a leather flap that hit the back of the main paddle when it was swung, making the noise louder. Silliness, harlequin props. Well, if this is what Sherlock was so fascinated by, it seemed harmless enough. Another swing, another sharp noise as the paddle contacted Sherlock's other buttock. Another oddly high-pitched squeak, another red mark. Easy. So easy. People _paid_ Irene to do this?


	4. Chapter 4

Some things made more sense late at night than they did in the cold light of the morning, and apparently, handcuffing your flatmate to a bed and paddling him until his arse was red was one of those things. John sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes. What had he _done_?

He wouldn't bring this up. It was Sherlock's experiment, and he could make mention of it or not. As he didn't, John didn't, either, and several days passed as John returned to work and Sherlock returned to strange 2am chemistry experiments.

Until John woke to the sound of Irene walking into the flat again.

He walked downstairs carefully, quietly, and pressed his ear to the door. He heard no words - just the creaking of the bed, some noises of flesh being struck, harsh breathing, more of the same. No moans of excitement, no sound of orgasm. Well. If it wasn't sexual, he could bloody well do it. He might well be an amateur, he considered as he quietly mounted the stairs, but there were books, there were websites. He could learn.

It was a rather confusing and self-contradictory batch of knowledge that John brought to Sherlock's room the next night, along with a small whip he had purchased out of a bit of guilt after perusing books at a kinky shop in Soho. Still, it meant he wouldn't have to use all of Irene's toys, and that was a blessing.

Sherlock was naked, sitting on his bed. He had surely deduced what John had been up to all day, what he was up to now. And he sat there, quietly, waiting for it. Fair enough. John carefully avoided looking at the man's cock as he closed the bedroom door. "On your face."

Sherlock turned over onto his front without protest. John picked up one of Sherlock's discarded shirts off of the floor, binding the man's arms over his head. Good enough. The whip was small and light, a stinging whip, not a cutting whip. John snapped it against Sherlock's back, and the man made a small moan as it left a little mark. Yes. More strikes against Sherlock's upper back, lower back, buttocks, thighs, little spider-web traces of red appearing as he worked. Sherlock made small noises with each strike, and John found himself warming to the task. Sherlock wanted to be beaten, then, and surely John could do as good a job as Irene. He had more cause, after all. The casual verbal abuse was one thing, but the mistrust - that hurt. That _hurt_ , more than the sting of this whip could, and John hit harder, harder, hitting for those long, lonely days, filled with despair...

John stepped back, gasping. Sherlock's back was covered with red welts, more springing up on his buttocks, on the backs of his thighs. This wasn't right. This wasn't right at all. "Sorry," John gasped, dropping the whip. He untied Sherlock's arms and stumbled out of the room, not looking back.

Again, neither of them spoke of it. The train ride out of town was Sherlock staring out of the window, rattling off the background details of the case and speculating on the incompetence of the local law enforcement. Meals were Sherlock's deductions of the fellow diners, and he stayed up working on his laptop until John fell asleep. The case was concluded with a minimum of bloodshed, and they actually laughed and joked about it on the way back, which felt amazingly good.

The first mention of it was a text John received at the first day back at work. _Tonight. That whip. Irene if not_.

Not the best text to read immediately after treating a shy young soldier for the clap. John bit his lip. But what was he supposed to do? The ultimatum was clear. John could _not_ let that woman get her talons into Sherlock, figuratively or otherwise. _Fine_ , he replied.

"You enjoy this," John accused as he bound Sherlock's hands to the headboard - facing him. He couldn't have Sherlock facing away, now - it had been too easy to lose control, when he couldn’t see the man’s face.

"So do you."

"It's not good that I do," John sighed, sitting back and taking the whip in his hands. Sherlock was wearing a very brief pair of underpants, surely an accurate deduction of John's comfort level at his nudity. "This isn't a good way to get out my frustration."

"Do you have a better way?" Sherlock's voice was calm, flat, almost quiet.

"No, but that doesn't mean I should do _this_."

"I want you to. John, I don't _ask_ people for things. I'm asking you for this."

"You don't come from this."

Sherlock snorted. "I don't have to _come_. This isn't about that. Now would you please use that, or do I have to call I..."

The snap of the whip obscured that name, and Sherlock's eyes fluttered shut. His mouth fell open. John snapped another blow at Sherlock's torso, and - it was astonishing, really. The man's face, so harsh and impatient, softened. He looked almost _pleased_.

This is for Sherlock, John reminded himself, not to relieve his own frustrations. He whipped Sherlock carefully, methodically, raising welts on the man's chest, thighs, and arms. He did note that the man's briefs were swelling with an erection underneath. That was a good sign, wasn't it?

He put the whip aside, sliding into bed next to Sherlock. The man's eyes opened, and he looked over at John, but John looked down at what was swelling Sherlock's briefs. This was the test of whether Sherlock was truly enjoying this. John reached down and pulled the erection out. It was all right, really. Soft skin, firm erection, veins tracing up the shaft.

“Get your filthy paws off of my genitals,” Sherlock snapped, his hips jerking away.

“I want you to come.”  Was that a look of alarm in Sherlock’s eyes?  No, it was arrogance.  That, John could deal with.

“I don’t need a ham-fisted veteran ripping my cock off.”

“I’m quite good at this.”  Well, good at doing it to himself, and how different could it be?

"Don't," Sherlock said, looking away. "I don't come."

"Shush." Everybody came. John licked his palm, taking Sherlock in his hand again, stroking, pinching Sherlock's nipples.

"I won't...." Sherlock inhaled sharply, his eyes widening, "won't come."

"That's fine," John replied, and then there was no sound in the room but little gasps and moans, the sound of John's hand moving on Sherlock's cock, the fingers of his other hand tweaking the man's nipples, stroking the welts he had raised earlier. Sherlock gasped and spat out a few more choice insults.  Then, he quieted, stiffened, gasping, and come spurted over John's hand. He stroked Sherlock through his shuddering, whimpering orgasm, then let go, untying Sherlock and wiping his hands clean on the shirt.  Sherlock curled up in bed, his eyes fluttering shut, and John covered him with the duvet, carefully, gently.


	5. Chapter 5

"Did you see what those morons wrote?" Sherlock flung the newspaper irritably at John.

John deflected the projectile, typing busily on his laptop. "No, I didn't."

"It's about as stupidly over-romanticized as any blog post you've ever written." Sherlock sighed, hands on hips. "You're writing one now, aren't you."

"Yes," John replied, correcting a spelling error.

"Good god." Sherlock shook his head, looking out of the window. He sucked in his lower lip, falling silent as he glanced out of the window, then back at John, as John focused on his blog post. The dead groundhog, the lost diamond, the shocked gay couple - this one would be _fantastic_.

"Well, if you have to." Sherlock looked down, muttering, "Get nipple clamps."

John looked up. "What?"

"Nipple clamps!" Sherlock sighed. "Get some."

"Why? You already told Irene off; you can hardly blackmail me with threatening to bring her back in again." Strange, how satisfying that had been. Well, perhaps not the eviction of Irene, but the idea that Sherlock took such pleasure in this rough handling, and that John was so comfortable providing it. But John did, after all, care for Sherlock, and satisfying him, even through these unusual means, was a good thing, overall.

Sherlock chewed on his lip for a moment. "All right. Fine," he snapped, over-enunciating. "Would you _please_ pick up a pair of nipple clamps to use on me?"

"Yes." John grinned at Sherlock. "I'd be happy to."

"And... my testicles." Sherlock gave the house plant an evil stare. "Be a little more forceful with them. The twisting and squeezing."

"I'm taking notes. Anything else?"

"You're not a nice man, John Watson," Sherlock grumbled, ambling into the kitchen.

" _Doctor_ John Watson," John corrected, cheerfully, hitting the Post button.


End file.
